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CHAPTER THIRTY

Tessa

Everything is happening too fast. I’ve got a rock in my hand and I’m racing at the patrolman, but my thoughts are a tangled mess of panic and horror. Then I’m leaping, jumping, swinging the rock as hard as I can. I hear the swick of the crossbow, then the crunch of my rock against the patrolman’s head. He goes down.

A shadow rolls into me, and suddenly Corrick has the fallen patrolman’s crossbow, and he’s reaching for an arrow.

He’s not going to be fast enough. There are three of them, and the other is already pointing, ready to shoot.

“No!” screams Forrest, surging off the ground to tackle the patrolman around the waist.

The man stumbles back a few feet, but Forrest isn’t big enough to bring him down. The patrolman pulls a dagger. “You filthy brat—”

Corrick shoots him in the face.

Theman jerks and goes down. I gasp, choking on my breath.

But there’s still one more, and he’s managed to reload. Corrick is fighting for another arrow, but his movement is slow and clumsy. He’ll never be fast enough.

I yank the dagger from my boot, the gift Prince Corrick gave me during our carriage ride. I know the worst spots for a dagger to hit, and I don’t bother to aim carefully. I plunge the dagger into the patrolman’s neck. He collapses.

The silence is sudden and weighted.

Forrest is panting, his breath coming in rapid, panicked gasps.

I might be doing the same thing. My fingers are sticky with blood.

Corrick finishes loading the crossbow, and he seizes another two arrows to shove under his belt. “Forrest,” he says, and his voice is shockingly quiet after what just happened.

The boy’s gasps have turned to dry heaving, and his hands press tightly against his abdomen.

“Forrest,” Corrick says again. His voice is cool and authoritative, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. Now I know why Wes was always so calm in the face of violence. He puts a hand against the boy’s shoulder. “The bodies need to be burned. Is your da home? Strip their uniforms and hide them. If anyone sees the smoke, say they died of the fever—”

“I’ll help him.”

The male voice comes from behind us, and Corrick whirls, the crossbow raised.

A young man has come through the trees, but he sees the crossbow and he lifts his hands. He’s wearing a hooded cloak, so I can’t make out much of his features in the dark, but his arm is thickly bandaged, the fingers stiff and swollen. He doesn’t look afraid. If anything, he looks long-suffering, like he’s used to weapons being pointed at him.

“Go ahead,” he says to Forrest, nodding toward the village. “Get your da to help drag them to the pit.”

The boy nods quickly and bolts.

Corrick hasn’t moved. The crossbow is leveled with deadly aim.

“I’m Lochlan,” the other man says. He offers half a shrug. “You can put down the bow. We’re all doing the same thing.” His eyes narrow. “Or were you looking to steal the boy’s pack?”

“No.” Corrick still hasn’t looked away, and his voice is very low, very quiet. “Tessa. Are you all right?”

I haven’t given a moment’s thought to myself, and I’m frozen by the unexpected tension that seems to have overtaken this small clearing. “I—yes.”

“Tessa?” says Lochlan. His tone is lazy, musing. “Would that make you Wes?”

“Help Forrest get rid of the bodies,” says Corrick. “We have rounds to make.”

Lochlan keeps his hands up, but he moves closer, peering at Wes. “I’ve heard a lot of stories, but rumor said you were killed.”

“Still alive,” says Corrick. He doesn’t lower the crossbow.